home where my love lies waiting silently for me
by ten.years.only.with.you
Summary: Eighteen minutes, one entryway, ten inches of oak. At least that is what stands between them in theory. carrie/sebastian


sometimes the greatest distance is the journey between two people.

x

Her house is approximately eighteen minutes from that of his mother's. It is brick and traditional with a wide walkway up to an ivy green hardwood door that separates the two of them from each other.

Just eighteen minutes, one stretch of molded concrete filling, and ten inches of oak. That is all that stands between them. In theory anyways.

x

Placing one foot in front of the other, sauntering towards the door, oozing with sex appeal and pure raw energy, he crosses that stretch of concrete filling. Hears the sounds of his sneakers on the ground, how the leaves give a satisfying crunch underfoot. He stops short at the small stoop, toes bumping the end of the edge, ready to tip into the door frame.

Sebastian rakes a hand through his kid blonde strands of hair, feels the wax on his fingertips as he traces the outline of his bottom lip. His reflection in the slanted glass of the windows betrays what is racing in his head. A confident smirk sits on his mouth with reassurance, broad shoulders strong and firm, hand poised with conviction, rolled into a fist hovering in mid-air before the ten inches of oak.

A pause. Sebastian waits, considers, weighs his options as well as the bottle of Glen Fiddick in his left hand, fingers curled evenly around the neck. Bites his upper lip, and stops for just a moment to consider how he got here to begin with at all.

x

About nine hours ago, his housekeeper, from a small Latin American country that everyone swears he couldn't name even though he knows for a fact that she is really from Guatemala, was putzing around the living room, watching him watch football with a nervous grimace on her face. Said, _muy precioso_ _pobrecito_, boy knew she was attempting to kill time and muttering indignations about his mother under her breath in a language that he understands since he has heard it his entire life. Sometimes from the help, sometimes from the numerous women that sneak out of his father's apartment in the morning, sometimes from the busty Spanish _maestra_ in the classroom.

He's pretty, but he ain't dumb.

The woman in question, his mother, if you could even be able to call her that most days, is unseen and unanswered. After rolling her eyes and cursing, _ay mierda_ for the millionth time (Sebastian had lost count after the phone rang over and over), she returns to the living room, wringing her hands on her apron and reports the news he already anticipated since long before he had woken up that morning.

You can eat dinner at my house, the housekeeper (Lupe, he repeats in his head) graciously tells him, her eyes bait and switching in repose for his words. She shrugs her shoulders as he half way considers her offer and then sees his sad hazel eyes land on the bottle of scotch. Lupe sighs and leaves him sitting in the empty house with no family, no dinner, and no promise of future restitution.

x

Sebastian rolls up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, the collar hanging haphazardly messy on his chest. One button mismatched out of the place, throwing off the entire thing. He shrugs on his leather jacket, yanks on those beaten down combat boots, barely ties the laces, just enough so that he doesn't go toppling over into a hedge, and sighs as he locks the door to his mother's house, slips the brassy key into his jeans.

His feet carry him down her impeccably trimmed entryway and in the light of a November moon, he peers back to see what he might be missing out on, but all that is there is a stark contrast of him so bright and young and_ alive_ against dank and dimmed and black. All inky black.

Stumbling into the gardenia bushes, he spins and heads in the opposite direction, the scotch in one hand and his other deep in the pocket of his jacket.

x

He marches right by Donna's house and doesn't stop, nor does he even think to even though the lights are on and there are cars in the park and there is smoke coming from the chimney.

He has somewhere else to be.

x

Her house is so Connecticut with the brick and the white rimmed window shutters and the gas lamps flickering in the night. So he admires it, the glow that emits from the inside to the out and how she is like that: how she gives off a glow from the inside out. Gets under the skin, you need her even when you don't know it, want her even when you think you don't.

He counted. It took eighteen minutes to get to her concrete walkway, so he puts one foot in front of the other and gets to her front door. Oak, painted ivy green, and peeling with the passing of time. Gingerly places his sneakered toes on the stoop, curls his fingers into a fist, raps intently on the door with a sharp _one, two_—

"Sebastian." She can barely contain the surprise in her voice at his presence close to midnight on her front porch, leaning on the doorjamb with such casualty that he just raises his eyebrows, smiles out the corner of his mouth, and shifts with nerves teasing his every blood vessel.

"Hey Bradshaw." And she grins.

x

They sit on the stoop with her family carrying on inside, candle flames dancing wildly on the walls, casting silhouettes that he couldn't even begin to imagine. There is amidst yelling, laughter and praise that he hears reaches his ear drums, the sounds of the Smiths trickling out and swirling around them. Him in his leather jacket and flannel shirt, her in the apron covered jewel toned dress. Her hair is spiral corked curls knotted to the crown of her head, soft pink lipstick stained on her mouth, matching hazel eyes attentive to him as he talks, tells her about his mother, his expectations for the day and how misplaced they were, how he should know better and what he should have learned the first go around and the one after that, the one after that.

She brushes her shoulder upon his, the glow touching him, sparking a deep purr in his ribcage, slow smile pulling across his cheekbones as she explains everything he needed to hear, but only believes when it comes out of her mouth. Extending a manicured hand, all baby force of her (strong in a way that he cannot begin to understand), pulls him up, their fingers weaving together before he enters the threshold of the house, crossing over the door frame, catapulting into all the noises, smells, and sights.

x

As long as Sebastian can recall, he hasn't had a real Thanksgiving.

It had always been drama and fighting and yelling over the yams. Private affairs with stolen goods in the back room of the country club, sloppy forgotten names of trysts past under white linen table cloths, divorce papers signed in pen, Lupe covering his ears when he was just a boy.

_Pobrecito, _she had whispered.

He opens his hazel eyes wide and shovels a large spoonful of bean dip onto his plate, dumps half a bag of Fritos next to it and slugs the babiest bit of scotch smoothly between his lips. Mr. Bradshaw raises his eyebrows and then begins talking to him about football. The room is freezing cold and pitch black, but there are enough candles and dull heat coming from the stone fireplace to rectify it quickly. Laughter and chatter mingles in with story telling and anecdotes of the evening. A smell of burnt charcoal and cinnamon lingers in the air, and it is so not what he expected that Thanksgiving was supposed to be like, but he kind of can't think that it could be any better than what's right in front of him. For once, his expectations are surpassed.

She flattens her palm on his over the tablecloth when no one is looking, smiles, the corners of it reaching her eyes. And then fast, like a strike of lightning, her fingers are back wrapped around the sterling silver of her fork, her cheeks a sweet apple rising.

x

Eighteen minutes, one concrete slab of walkway, ten inches of oak.

It's the longest trip he's been on in a while. Killer location though.


End file.
